


How I Long For My Indiana Home

by peaknaivety (orphan_account)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, also mentions of religion, i think this might qualify as emotional hurt/comfort?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/peaknaivety
Summary: Quentin and Eliot find a quiet moment at the mosaic, and Eliot finally feels safe enough to share pieces of his past with someone. Not all about his dad quite yet, but at least a little about just how Whiteland, Indiana treated him.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	How I Long For My Indiana Home

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to the song '(Back Home Again In) Indiana'
> 
> I got vibechecked by a uquiz this afternoon and had to write this. P l e a s e note the tags. There are homophobic comments and slurs.
> 
> Might have a permanent line in every note that says "Thank you to James and Courtney."

“I read them,” Eliot stated, nonchalant and with a poised, unaffected lilt in his voice, “in the fourth grade.” The past had a way of bubbling up, up, and out of him when he got too comfortable. He turned to Quentin and locked eyes, soft, bottomless brown facing him with wonder.

“ _You?_ ” Quentin whispered scandalized and exasperated, “You read _Harry Potter_?” He arched his brow at the stretched, languid man beside him, sprawled on the patchwork quilt. They traded for it in town a few weeks back, getting used to spending time in the Fillorian wilderness. The mosaic cast them into their own little world, and here they had lain, oblivious and life shrunk down to just the two of them.

“I’m a Slytherin,” he admitted, bracing himself on his arm to turn and gaze at the ball of curiosity almost tucked into his side. Eliot regarded him seriously before his top lip smoothed out into a smirk.

“Oh,” Quentin whispered, “you’re uh- fucking with me.” He blinked twice in rapid succession and ran his hand through his hair.

“I’m not,” Eliot insisted.

“You told me that you like _don’t_ enjoy reading, so-”

Quentin was quickly interrupted as Eliot cast his ginormous hand up to caress the side of his face, thumb padding into the corner of his jaw. He pressed into it, feeling the shape of it absentmindedly.

“Not anymore,” he clarified, “I used to, when I was a destitute farm hand wandering the picturesque hills of rural Indiana.” Quentin knew that about him already. Margo knew. Fucking Mike knew – well, the idea of Mike that Eliot wanted to know had been told. There was nothing else to do here. They had resulted to exchanging dirty, little secrets months ago.

“You’re good at that,” Quentin offered, peering up at Eliot through his thick, fanned eyelashes. His mopey frown stretched even further, poking deeper creases in his dimples, and he rubbed his ankles together. Must have been scratching a mosquito bite.

Eliot flicked the edge of the blanket back around the smaller man’s feet, sacrificing the corner he had initially spared for his legs.

“At what?” he asked innocently.

“I don’t know, you like joke about it and allude to it,” Quentin explained, “but you don’t really talk about it.”

“About what?” Eliot continued, feigning ignorance.

“Home,” he stated simply.

“You say home like its home,” Eliot deadpanned, attempting to reign in the sheer anxiety that needled him with any prodding into his past.

“Fine, not home. Your past. I don’t know what you want me to call it, El,” Quentin sputtered, hooking the arm that wasn’t buried by his own body weight around Eliot’s lean waist. _Cheating_. Eliot thought blithely, as Quentin pressed into the small of his back with his squared, fuzzy hands. His fingers pinched at the seam on the back of Eliot’s wrap tunic. The god-damn beige disaster that it was. Maybe they would have purple dye at market next time. He ripped his attention back to the pretty boy bunched up, who clearly had decided that it was time for a serious discussion.

“I don’t call it anything. I don’t think about it,” he began, idly, “It’s nothing, I suppose.”

“It sounds like trauma-” he interjected. _Parroting some bullshit from therapy._ His mind slipped into the negativity, before he could reprimand himself.

“It’s a headache, Q.” Eliot snapped. It was unintentional, but it clawed its way out of him, tearing at this person snuggled under his chin, epitome of saccharine in his sweetness. He just wanted to help, and Eliot knew that. Drudging all this up was still a dangerous game for everyone involved.

“Okay, yeah, sorry,” Quentin stumbled through his words, “I didn’t mean to like, pry or piss you off. I’m sorry.” Eliot worked his deft fingers into the strands of Quentin’s chestnut bob, combing through to massage his scalp and quiet him down – physically and mentally.

“No, no. It’s not about you. I’m not mad at you,” Eliot assured him.

“I shouldn’t uh- push with stuff like this.”

“You have nothing but good intentions,” Eliot declared, because it was the truth. Quentin walked, or rather anxiously waddled through life with little else besides his good intentions. Often it was just that that could blind him so easily, but this, maybe he was onto something. If there was anyone who he could just unload all of the shit - the shit that buzzed around in the back of his brain, the shit that guided his every action, the dull thud behind his eyes on the worst days – it would be Margo, but he may very well never see her again; however, he was extremely fond of Quentin.

On occasion a certain l-word crossed his mind, when he watched him scratch away at tile combinations for four hours and promptly pass out in the resulting dust. Once, Quentin had gone off alone to town and brought back a disgusting, moldy spool of dough, rank with bad yeast.

_“Uh, I just remembered you like to bake,” Quentin blurted, showing the jar of starter off to Eliot. He smiled gracefully, taking the glass receptacle cautiously. As soon as Quentin had stalked away, Eliot took it to the river and pitched it in as far as he could. The idea of it was very cute, unbearably sweet and thoughtful, but he would just have to make Quentin something fresh with his own starter. Family recipe, not that Quentin would ever notice._

The wasteland of forested Fillory chipped away at him in all his senses, restoring him to a weak, nostalgic state. The trees, the fields, the farms. It lacked a certain liminal feel to it, lacking in telephone poles and tattered-flannel-clad neighbors, but it reminded him of a place he might have called home at one point in time.

“So, I grew up on a farm in Whiteland, Indiana, which you know already,” Eliot nervously recalled, “and I killed someone-”

“The bully?”

“Logan. You know that too,” he continued, shakily outlining the basis Quentin would have before he launched into his melodramatic tale. “I can’t- I still can’t talk about my dad.” The word came out punched, forced. He bit the consonants off at both ends and clenched his forearms on the way through it. _Dad._ It was unfamiliar in every way.

Quentin was being so good, quiet and earnest, with his broad hand sweeping along the column of Eliot’s back in an attempt at comfort. The gesture was marginally successful.

“I can hardly tell the difference between my anger and my sadness anymore,” Eliot confided, a glaze forming over his eyes. “It’s all just a fucking _mess_ .” _I’m a mess._ He thought. His thumb stroked at the soft flesh behind Quentin’s ear, and he continued. “I really don’t have much of an issue with Indiana in and of itself, but when I’m there it’s like inescapable nausea.” As he spoke, he could feel his chest tightening.

“You don’t have to do this,” Quentin urged, recognizing what might be the early stages of a panic attack.

“I’m fine,” he persisted, “Quentin, I’m- let me share this with you.” It broke out of him. That wasn’t him who said that. It couldn’t have been. They didn’t talk like that with each other. Willing away that entire other sheet of fear that coiled in his belly, he pressed on into what it was he could finally feel himself telling someone. “Aside from the obvious, professional job my family did at fucking me over, school was awful.

_Johnson County, Indiana was a small, subordinate leaflet nestled just under the state’s capital. Somehow, despite being only an hour drive from Indianapolis, it managed to be farmland for the most part. Whiteland was the closest big town to the family farm, a mere ten-minute distance from the main street. In reality, the family property was closer to the tiny community of Trafalgar, a one-stoplight, conservative, culturally-Christian haven cut out for Calvinist-American conformity. People were born, lived their whole life, and died there._

_The community consisted of all four schools in one block, a gas station, a church, and a McDonalds that dwindled in and out of business. The Waugh household frequented all of these establishments. His parents lived, and would die by the word of God. Whoever that is. They dragged him and his older brothers to the rundown house of worship every Sunday, and his older brothers dragged him along to Youth Bible Study on Wednesday nights._

_From up high, a small town like that looks like a petri dish – teeming with bacteria, bouncing around in a chaos known only to the organisms inside. Everyone knew everyone else there, and they knew all of your business. Sometimes before even you did. At least, they knew he was queer before he ever had the chance to figure it out himself._

_Maybe it was in the way he dressed, although he distinctly remembered abiding by the Midwestern farmer’s code of sun-bleached jeans, a camo t-shirt, and working boots. His brothers and his father wore the same. Maybe it was in the way he walked or he talked, although in that too, he thought he sounded just like anyone else from there. He said “y’all,” and “warshed,” and “Lullvulle, Kentucky.” He never knew what tipped them off._

_Logan Kinnear needed no hints apparently._

_“Jesus loves you,” Logan spat, literally, at Eliot, “faggot.” Then, Eliot was hurtling to the ground, propelled by the thick arms of the troglodyte before him. Landing with a thud, he balled his fists into the unmowed grass of the recess yard. Logan’s friends, with names not worth remembering – something like Jack, Tom, Josh, who cares, laughed right along with their leader, following suit and spitting one after the other. Few landed, but it was the thought that counted. From then on, it only got worse._

_When the teachers found out someone stuck out, they made no move to help, and when his mother finally caught wind and pressed the administration, there was no relief from them either._

_“If Eliot didn’t want to be bullied, Eliot should just work to be like the rest of the children,” the principal had concluded, issuing a statement that essentially left him, an eight-year-old, on his own._

_His mother was sympathetic to the struggle at school, smiling meekly when he got home from the_ _torturous, forty-minute bus ride._

_“How was your day, honey?” she would always attempt to make contact, but dad-_

_“Don’t let him start. Our son’s a pussy,” he interjected._

“Jesus, El,” Quentin interrupted, locking his arm around the taller man, providing some much needed stability. Eliot was floating, not literally, not in the happy way. He was lost, but he continued recounting regardless. The dam was broken. He was telling someone.

_When his mother took him to sign up for the local baseball league, the woman in charge of sign-ups accosted them. Nose upturned, nasal-tone and pen tapping, she looked right at Eliot._

_“We don’t take his kind here,” the attendant stated, matter-of-fact._

_“I’m sorry,” his mother started in, “What’s his kind?”_

_“Ma’am, you know,” she glanced back over to him, making eye contact, before she made a feeble attempt to mask her mouth with her hands. Then she whispered, like it was a salacious detail, “gay.”_

_“He is not,” she defended him, looking over and hoping he hadn’t been privy to their exchange. He pretended to sort through the long socks. Uniforms had been laid out for the boys to try on sizes. He toyed with the edges of the pants. “He’s not gay. He loves Kate Bush. I catch him staring at her picture on my albums all the time. He’s not gay.”_

_“Ma’am, it’s not a personal thing,” the woman explained, “We just can’t have him on the team. What if he molests one of the other boys?”_

_Eliot pretended not to hear the sniffling when his mom clutched at his arm and dragged him out of the fire station, where they had set up the headquarters for the league. While they marched out of the door, the woman called after them._

_“Try Morgantown! I hear they’re desperate!”_

_He never tried to do sports again._

“You were- literally, like, a child,” Quentin had left a wet patch on the front of his scratchy blouse from where his tears were leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He whimpered, trying his best to stay quiet in the hopes of Eliot letting it all out.

Eliot was just thankful for the emotion on his behalf, because he felt nothing as this escaped him. He expected it, the dark coil that burned at his core when he dwelled on this. It didn’t feel like he was talking about him though. Objectively, this was his life, but it was like watching someone else go through it.

_The Waugh’s started going to church without him when he turned ten, as the pastor had politely requested his absence. He gave no reason, but they had a good enough idea. It had already been a year since his classmates began completely ignoring him, everyone but Taylor._

_Even Taylor only spoke to him in passing, not that it was entirely his choice. They never got lucky enough to have the same teacher, but they lived within five minutes of each other, walking distance. Eliot would drag his feet coming out of the classrooms in intermediate school, trudging down the hallway without making eye contact. Taylor would catch him on his way out of the main doors, in route to their bus, #52._

_“Eliot!” he shouted across the front of the tarred parking lot, bounding over to him in great, big steps. Taylor slung his arm around his shoulders, shaking him a little as they approached the bus door. Silently, Eliot tapped on the glass, asking to be let in. His classmates gave Taylor the side-eye when he gave him a good attitude, so he pretended to not enjoy his company. It was for Taylor’s own good, but he followed behind him regardless, plopping into his personal space in the gray, stretched seats._

_“Hi, Taylor,” he conceded quietly, hoping the upperclassmen in the back wouldn’t hear. These rides were K-12 after all._

_“How was your day?” Taylor asked._

_“Amazing,” he remarked over a fake smile. Sarcasm was creeping in early._

_“Mine too. Hey, you’re coming to the roller-skating fundraiser tonight, right?”_

_“I hadn’t planned on it,” Eliot admitted._

_“You have to. It’s in Franklin. Your mom would probably take you. Or we can pick you up?” Taylor offered, a-mile-a-minute with all his energy._

_“No, no. My mom can bring me.”_

_“Awesome,” Taylor confirmed, and then prattled on, deflecting whenever someone reached over their seat to pour whatever they could on Eliot. Taylor was his first, last, and only line of defense through the extended journey home. As soon as he shuttled off the bus, forgoing a wave to his only friend, he bolted up to the front door. The earlier he got in his request to go to the skating rink, the better. Looking out around the back of the house, he could clearly see his dad and his eldest brother still working out in the field, going back and forth between the crop and the equipment barn. Eliot darted into the house, now assured that his dad wasn’t in._

_“Hey honey, how was your day?” his mom issued her daily inquiry._

_“Fine,” he supplied, as he approached her at her desk. She was leafing through their bills, budgeting, praying that they would make it through the fall. “Can I go to the school fundraiser tonight?”_

_“Fundraiser?” she asked, “How much does it cost?”_

_“Like, five dollars I think. Taylor said his mom could take us,” he added, hoping that would convince her. His mom pinched the bridge of her nose, lifting her glasses onto her forehead, and thought for one, long moment._

_“No, you can go, but I think I should probably take you.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Yeah, what time is it?”_

_“Six, I think,” he confirmed, practically bouncing where he stood._

_In the time leading up to the skating rink, Eliot brought every piece of clothing he owned out of his drawers. As to why this felt important, he was clueless, but he felt like he needed to switch things up. Eventually, he piled into his mom’s van in the black t-shirt she bought him from Goodwill last week and his middle brother’s old blue jeans. He wore his gym sneakers instead of his boots, something easy to slip out of for when he needed to put on the skates._

_The skating rink itself was about as busy as it could be, given it was in Franklin, Indiana and the occupants were that of his classmates and their parents. There were about one-hundred fifty people there in total. Eliot’s mother paid for him to get in, deciding to wait outside while he enjoyed himself. She tugged her package of cigarettes out along with her lighter, and he turned to head towards skate rental._

_Eliot kept his eyes down on the way, tracing the patterns in the carpet, reminiscent of the 90’s and old movie theaters, or that’s what his oldest brother said the last time they came here. Padding down the steps to the lower level and past the limited arcade area, Eliot approached the window, gave them his shoe size, and handed the stout, teenaged worker his ticket for the rental._

_The ratty pair of skates clunked down in front of him, ready for a spin, and he grabbed them greedily, fully expecting to bust his ass. He just didn’t expect it to be so soon, as he rotated again to head for the rink, he smacked his face right into the side of one Logan Kinear, a whole foot taller than him and backed by his cronies._

_“What are you doing here?” he questioned Eliot, as if they didn’t go to the same school._

_“Skating,” he answered, precise, but some might have considered it sassy. They did actually. Logan hooked his right knee and sent him tumbling to the ground. From the dusty, carpeted floor, he spotted Taylor at the back of the crowd and pleaded at him, eyes blown wide in terror, but Taylor looked away, not up to saving Eliot this time around. Taylor’s mom tugged her son away from the mess, Logan kicked him one more time for good measure, and everyone carried on like nothing had happened._

_Nothing except for Eliot bawling on the floor of the God damned skating rink like a lost toddler. As soon as he was able to stand, he left the skates on the floor and headed for the exit, hoping to leave, before he realized he would have to face his mother. She wouldn’t care if he wanted to leave, but she would know if he left a mere five minutes after they had arrived._

_In a quick change of pace, he scampered off to the restroom, slammed a stall door behind him, sunk to the ground, and flew into hysterics. The water works started up again, sobbing uncontrollably._

_They had looked at him like some kind of zoo animal. Like he wasn’t human._

_Say whatever about Midwestern kindness, but the minute they decided you lacked some qualifying factor of humanity was the minute you were scorned. After forty-five minutes of intermittent sobbing and hushing himself when footsteps paced into and out of the stalls, he snuck out of the back exit to meet his mother at their rusted, Ford pick-up truck._

_“How’d it go?” she asked, always asking him questions._

_“Great,” he nodded and climbed into the passenger side, “Let’s go.” He spotted Taylor and his mom coming out of the exit he had just used to eject himself from the social nightmare he had been subject to. Taylor sent a sympathetic gaze in his direction, but he ignored it, exhausted and livid and ready to just go home. He still had chores to do, or his dad- his dad would break him._

_The truck sputtered to life, ripping through the back roads back through the cornfields to their property, and the sun was well on its way to set by now. Tumbling over their gravel driveway, his mom braked by the goat barn, parking thirty-feet off from the house. She gave him a bit of company on the trot back inside. The phone rang just as the shutter door flew shut behind him._

_Eliot made for the stairs, taking them two to one stride before he heard the phone call begin._

_“Hi, Esther,” his mom greeted Taylor’s on the phone. He took his shoes off, stripping his feet down to just socks and creeped back down the stairs._

_“I’m so sorry, Julie,” she sniffled through the receiver._

_“What- are you okay? What’s wrong?”_

_“I should’ve stood up for him,” she prattled on through what increasingly sounded like tears._

_“Who?”_

_“Your son. I should’ve said something.” Mom only shuddered out a sigh, resting her forehead on the kitchen cabinet._

_“What happened now?”_

_“The PTA.”_

_“The PTA? What the hell do they have to do with my kid?”_

_“They told us that-” her crying broke through again as she heaved a large breath out of her lungs, “- that we shouldn’t let our kids talk to him. Said he’s a homo. I know he’s not. I swear I know he’s not.”_

_Eliot peeked around the corner of the entryway into the kitchen in time to see a droplet slink down his mom’s face, but she made no move to sob, no noise. She blinked to dry her eyes up, and hung up the phone with a slam. He zipped back around and clambered up the stairs, a criminal._

Without realizing, his own tears finally slipped out, long after Quentin had started in. They clutched at each other, hands roaming, searching for purchase on each other, looking for station as they held one another.

“There’s more,” Eliot assured him.

“I- I know. I know but,” Quentin paused to pass through a wave of grief, “we should- stop. You’re crying, El.” Reaching up, he took Eliot’s face into both hands and wiped the wetness spilling out of his eyes, in their place he sprinkled kisses, flittering and fizzy in their wake.

The sun had set in Fillory, casting the night into a dull glow as the two moons climbed high into their perches, washing the stars in elegant light. Quentin and Eliot spent the night just as they had spent the evening, holding on to each other, protecting themselves from everything that wasn’t them. They slept with tears dried on their cheeks and their hands tangled in the greasy strands of their hair. When they woke up the next morning, they cracked on with one of the many designs Quentin had devised for the unending puzzle, unaware of how that night was a small piece of it.


End file.
